


Veritas

by rallamajoop



Series: Wine and Nostalgia [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Blood & Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29076921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rallamajoop/pseuds/rallamajoop
Summary: Their first kiss tastes of mandrake wine, and Geralt doesn't care that he's dropped his cup, that the bottle is probably emptying into the grass as it rolls away; he's busy chasing the last taste of it deep into Regis' mouth. Presently, he releases Regis' wrist so he can slide his fingers into the feather-soft hair at the back of the vampire's neck. His other arm comes to rest around Regis' slim waist. It's an illusion, to imagine he can hold Regis here, but Geralt doesn't care.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Series: Wine and Nostalgia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2133306
Comments: 41
Kudos: 166
Collections: Regis Rocks





	1. Chapter 1

Somewhere after his second cup, Geralt loses count—a dangerous mistake with any strong spirit, let alone Regis' legendary mandrake distillate. Likely he'll regret that come the morn, but for now he's in too good a mood to care. Besides, there's plenty to drink to—a victory (of a sort, at least) against all the odds, to old times, and to good company. And now that Geralt has the time to reflect, to the easing of an old, bitter pain: a lament arranged for four parts in the ruins of Stygga castle, carried in his heart and echoing through his head in quiet moments of regret ever since. 

He'll never be wholly free of it, but stripped of its loudest instrument, it will never trouble him in quite the same way—nor will its taunts that he could have ever been so foolish as to suppose one got to _keep_ companions like those. Least of all one so unlikely as Regis.

Here and now, lying in the moss, looking up at the stars, listening to the soft chirping of crickets in the peaceful ambience of a warm night, Geralt is buzzed enough to indulge in a little nostalgia, for nostalgia is safe and attractive tonight in a way it hasn't been in years. Certainly more so than when Roach first put a hoof over the border into Toussaint scant weeks ago, and for a moment Geralt was a younger man again, by a handful of years and a lifetime of memories, sweet and sour. But good company and good wine make all the difference, and for tonight at least, he can be a man without regrets. He's earned that much. 

"Penny for your thoughts, my friend?" Regis' voice, interrupting his reverie. Still a miracle, each time he hears it. 

Geralt can't see him from where he's lying, but he knows Regis can see his smile. "Thinking about old times. You know, the first time we ever tried your mandrake hooch, I recall you abstained." 

"Did I? Are you sure?" Regis' tone is playful. " _I_ seem to recall you woke up the following morning in such a state that I'd be impressed you remember..." 

"Don't play coy. I'd bet you remember it as well as I do. Sang us a song about your age and declining constitution. Played the mild-mannered village barber surgeon to the hilt. Quite the performance." 

Regis chuckles. "I suppose I'll take the compliment. Though if you'd like to know the truth, I recall having more practical considerations in mind that night. It takes a great deal of alcohol to lower a vampire's inhibitions, but when one's invited a professional hunter of vampires into one's home, one can't be too careful." 

"Mm. No knowing what his witcher-senses might pick up." 

"Or what _I_ might have let slip. You can only imagine how curious I was as to how long it would take you to figure me out." 

Interesting thought. Shame they'll never know. Geralt would like to think he'd have realised before long, had Regis not abandoned all subtlety so quickly. "Didn't give me much of a chance, in the end." 

"Well, no. Can you blame me? I thought you took it rather well, all considered." 

Now it's Geralt's turn to laugh. "Really? What would a _bad_ reaction have looked like?" 

"You made it out of the Temerian camp alive, didn't you? You even had the decency to say 'thank you'." 

"Before telling you I never wanted to see you again." 

"So you did. But we both know how long _that_ lasted." 

And a good thing too, Geralt thinks. There's so much more he never got to thank Regis for. Without Regis, there'd have been no survivors of Stygga castle: not Geralt, not Yennefer, nor even Ciri. If they'd ever made it to Stygga at all. How do you begin to thank someone for so much? Geralt can't find the words. He takes another drink. 

"Still, if I'm to be completely honest with you," says Regis, filling the silence, "I did have other reservations about drinking in your presence on that first night, taking my own history into account." 

Geralt listens as Regis swirls his cup lightly in his hand, raises it for another sip. He could interject here, but it feels unnecessary, and it is: Regis goes on soon enough. 

"Come on Geralt, you know I'm a recovering addict. Even if alcohol was never my particular vice, think of the circumstances. I'd invited you all in, encouraged you to help yourselves to my spirits—anyone could have predicted the evening would end with most of you passed out around the room in various flavours of unconsciousness. You can only imagine the temptation posed by so many warm bodies, pliant and sleepy—some of them surely too far gone even to notice a few bite marks on their necks come morning. Having not been in such a position in a good while, let's say I felt I could do without anything else lowering my inhibitions." 

It's quite a confession, even for Regis, who admitted his past to Geralt long ago. "Hm. Worked in your favour, though. You'd have had a much harder time convincing us you meant no harm without that as our first night in your company." 

"Also much harder to hate a man who has made such a considerate host. I can imagine you'd have taken the discovery of my nature much worse, had you realised it then." 

Geralt smiles and tries to imagine it. "Would have rather ruined the evening if I'd tried to kill our host. Or been killed in the process." 

Regis scoffs, as if the very idea is absurd. "Don't be ridiculous, Geralt. I wouldn't have fought you. If it came to that, I'd have fled. It's not as though you could have caught me." 

True enough. And what a shame that would have been, if that had been the last Geralt had ever seen of him. He twists his neck to look over his shoulder, just far enough to see Regis from the corner of his eye. "No such reservations now? Do I risk waking up tomorrow with teeth marks on my neck?" 

Regis smiles. "Not mine, certainly." 

Geralt's cup is empty, but Regis refills it when proffered without comment. 

Nostalgia, like destiny, is a double-edged sword: there are still too many memories of that time which could dull Geralt's mood if he allowed himself to dwell on them. But there's good news to be shared of at least some of the companions Regis will remember from that day. "You know, Zoltan and Dandelion—they're running a tavern up in Novigrad now. Dandelion even says he's settled down—met this lovely young thing called Priscilla. Fellow bard, quite the singer. Funny story, actually..." But the 'funny story' Priscilla brought to mind—about a Katakan calling itself a higher vampire and its mad devotion to a religion which would name any vampire anathema—becomes less funny once Geralt remembers the bodies, the meaningfully staged remains of Patricia Vegelbud, or the dangling question of whether Priscilla will ever sing again. He hesitates, frowning at his cup. A few more rounds, and he'll be telling the 'funny story' of the pogrom of Rivia. 

Regis, fortunately, doesn't seem to have noticed. "Really? _Dandelion_ , of all people? She's made an honest man of him? That would be something to see." In a different tone, he adds, "He'll be sorry he missed this little adventure. Would have been almost like old times, with him here." 

The wistfulness of those last words has had some moments to settle between them before Geralt realises it's his silence to fill. "He'll want to hear everything, when I see him next. Probably get another ballad out of it. The Beast of Beauclair, the Curse of the Black Sun, the reconciliation of the Duchess with her long-lost sister..." 

"Rich material indeed," Regis agrees, "if perhaps a little lacking in romance for Master Dandelion's tastes. You're losing your touch, Geralt." 

"Oh, well..." Geralt starts, then stops. "Hm." Maybe Regis will let him get away with it. 

Regis does nothing of the sort. "Geralt?" 

Geralt pretends not to hear. 

"Come on, Geralt. What were you going to say? The weight of suggestion you can fit into one of your 'hms' is truly impressive." 

Geralt exhales. "Well. Since you ask... Syanna did..." he waves a hand, " _offer_." 

" _Syanna_? Surely you jest. When in the world did that happen? Back at the palace, before the ceremony, I suppose?" 

"Earlier," Geralt admits. "In the Land of a Thousand Fables, right before we got back." 

"Even as the fires of the battle tore through Beauclair?" Regis, Geralt is well aware, has little enough respect for Syanna, but has apparently found some left to lose. "Are you quite serious?" 

Geralt shook his head. "Wasn't like that—you remember, I told you how time moves differently in there. We spent hours finding the way out, wasn't more than moments for you. And I don't think it was about..." Geralt may never be sober enough to find a way to defend Syanna to Regis, but he can only do his best, "That is... she knew what was waiting for her. She put on a brave face, but some part of her wanted to delay the inevitable, just a little longer." And for all her assurances that she could deal with Dettlaff, perhaps she _knew_ , better than any of them, that Geralt might be the last man she'd ever lie with. 

Perhaps that might have changed his mind, if he'd thought of it then. 

"Even so," says Regis, pointedly, "I _presume_ you turned her down?" 

"Of course," Geralt mumbles, which is fortunately truthful. And if he was more tempted than he's keen to let on, Regis doesn't need to know. 

Geralt hears him sigh. He's probably shaking his head. "You know," says Regis, "once upon a time, when I knew you only as a character in Master Dandelion's ballads, I was naïve enough to assume the ease with which you supposedly made people fall for you was the stuff of poetic exaggeration. And now the longer I've known you, the more I'm forced towards the conclusion he may have understated the reality." 

It's an observation that amuses Geralt for a reason he can't immediately put his finger on. "Well," he says, on a whim, "I suppose _you'd_ know." 

The silence that follows this statement is long enough to be a little sobering. 

" _Ah_ ," says Regis, at last. If Geralt's 'hms' can contain a wealth of suggestion, they've nothing on the weight Regis imbues in that single syllable. "What... gave me away?" 

Geralt lets himself smile. "That would be _telling_." The truth is that he isn't sure; perhaps he hadn't known at all until a moment ago. If someone had told him yesterday that Regis loved him, he might have laughed at them. 

"I had _tried_ to be, well, subtle." 

"Subtle? Really?" Geralt actually cranes his head around to look at him. Regis, who had followed him all the way into Nilfgaard on little more than a whim, who stood at his side against Vilgefortz, who had explained the weight of a blood-bond and _still_ stood at his side against Dettlaff—done it all, without a second thought—Regis thought he'd been _subtle?_ Geralt says none of this aloud, but Regis has never been stupid. 

"Oh, alright. I suppose I could have done more, though I see it would all have been wasted effort, if you're taking it this well." 

"Don't even have a sword at your throat this time," Geralt agrees, smiling. 

"Careful, Geralt," Regis teases, a dangerous lilt to his voice, "I might just be inclined to enjoy that sort of thing." 

Geralt laughs aloud. How is it so easy, to talk about this, to joke about it? Blame Regis, he's always broken all the rules. "So, blood-bonds, not actually necessary for your kind to develop... feelings, huh?" 

"What does..." Regis starts, genuinely confused by this sudden jump in topic. "Oh, _Geralt_ , that's not at all how the bond works." 

Geralt raises his eyebrows. 

"Well, not necessarily, at any rate," Regis allows. 

It occurs to Geralt that this is not a topic he would have raised if he were sober enough to have more sense. "Sorry. Shouldn't have brought it up." 

Regis sighs and looks away. "Perhaps you're not entirely wrong. Perhaps, in another life, Dettlaff and I could have made one another very happy. But in this one... no. He needed me far too much for there to be any question of that. It's a dangerous thing to fall in love with the only person who believes you can be a better man, and even if Dettlaff had not the self-control to deny himself, I could not have allowed myself to return it." A breath, and a soft rustle of cloth, and Regis' voice turns wistful again, "In any case, we were both of us foolish enough to have already fallen in love with humans. And there I suppose I ought to count myself lucky: the object of my affections might be no more likely to return them, but at least he stands to live somewhat longer than Dettlaff could have hoped for. And he is—regardless of the slurs oft thrown at him in the street—no monster." 

Geralt swallows a mouthful of wine down a suddenly-dry throat. He wonders if he and Syanna might have more in common than Regis gives them credit for. "High standards you've got there," he manages. 

Regis gives him a wry smile. "I never imagined it would be so easy to admit this all to you." 

"Like you said," Geralt shrugs. "I'm an old hand at having people fall in love with me." 

Regis scoffs softly. "Well, it's already gone straight to your ego, I can see that." 

"Does that mean I don't get to hear just what made me so attractive to a higher vampire?" He means it as a joke, a way to lighten the mood a little, but there's nothing joking in the way Regis looks at him. 

"Geralt, you had my fascination long before we met. I suppose Dandelion himself never realised how his tales might capture the imagination of someone like myself—my kind were certainly never his intended audience—and yet, all those songs about a Witcher with such willingness to see the humanity in the very monsters he was sent to hunt—what a romantic notion! How could I resist the opportunity to see first-hand how much of it were true?" 

Geralt isn't prone to blushing, so the warmth in his cheeks must be an effect of the wine. "Did the real thing live up to your expectations?" 

"Even the world's most skilled poet," says Regis, "can hope to capture only a few facets of the reality of their subjects. In fact, the world's most-skilled-poet certainly knows better than to try. So, no, Geralt, I can't say Dandelion has truly done you justice. Not to your stubbornness, your capacity to sulk incessantly, or your perpetual disappointment with the world, just to begin with." 

Geralt sips his drink and wisely says nothing. 

"But once I realised I'd begun to find even those characteristics charming—well. By then it was too late. Is that sincerity enough for you, witcher? Is your ego sufficiently engorged?" 

"Hm." Geralt is not nearly sober enough to tell if he's just been insulted. Probably not, but he doesn't think he can take much more of Regis' turn for sincerity without something giving way. They've done enough talking, that much is certain. "You could come over here and find out." 

For a moment, Regis is silent. "Excuse me?" 

"Don't make me repeat myself," says Geralt. "We've both had enough of your moonshine to give you the excuse." 

This time, the silence stretches even longer. "Alright," says Regis, carefully. "Let's assume for the sake of the argument that I understand you. I feel honour bound to point out to you, Geralt, that to the best of my knowledge—and you may believe me, I'm enough of a romantic to have looked for it—you _aren't attracted to men_." 

Geralt stares up at a distant, starry sky. "Good thing for me you're not a man." 

"At the risk of getting lost in the semantics of that argument, I'm still going to suggest that were I to come over there and do any of the things you seem to be suggesting, I'm still going to prove rather more _male_ than you're accustomed to." 

Geralt shrugs. "One way to find out." 

Another rustle of cloth, then footsteps, then Regis moves unhurriedly into Geralt's view. Still standing while Geralt reclines, but he must have decided this is a conversation they need to have face to face. "It is _terribly_ cruel of you," he tells Geralt, "to tease me like this." 

"Maybe I'm not teasing." 

"If you weren't, you wouldn't have started that statement with 'maybe'. Forgive me for trying to be the adult in this situation, but I think you've had enough to drink." 

Regis moves to pluck Geralt's mostly-empty cup from his slack-fingered grip; by the time Geralt has caught up with his intention, his fingers tighten on empty air. Unwilling to give it up so easily, he makes an abortive grab for it and ends up with his hand wrapped around Regis' wrist instead. The cup clatters to the ground between them. 

Regis has frozen. An ordinary man probably wouldn't have heard the soft intake of breath from the vampire's throat, that makes Geralt stroke his thumb gently over the soft skin on the inside of his wrist. 

When Regis moves again, it's forward: into Geralt's space. He raises his free hand to cup the side of Geralt's face. 

"You are _such_ a blight on my better judgement," he says, before closing the last of the gap between them. 

Their first kiss tastes of mandrake wine, and Geralt doesn't care that he's dropped his cup, that the bottle is probably emptying into the grass as it rolls away; he's busy chasing the last taste of it deep into Regis' mouth. Presently, he releases Regis' wrist so he can slide his fingers into the feather-soft hair at the back of the vampire's neck. His other arm comes to rest around Regis' slim waist. It's an illusion, to imagine he can hold Regis here, but Geralt doesn't care. 

Regis kisses him slow and thoroughly. It's some time before they break apart. 

"Well, Geralt?" he asks. "Have you satisfied your curiosity?" 

"Not even close." The hoarseness of his own voice surprises him. 

"Alright." Regis, unfairly, seems to be suffering no such impediment. "You started this, Geralt. Where exactly do you see it going?" 

"We could figure that out together." The slow movement of Regis' thumb at the edge of Geralt's cheek is terribly distracting. He wishes Regis would stop talking for once in his life. 

"Geralt, please. I've already offered you sincerity—I daresay more than you expected. Now it's your turn to return the favour. What do you think you're doing here?" 

Geralt breathes out, frustrated. "I don't _know_ , Regis. Nothing about you has ever made sense to me, but I gave up trying to make sense out of you years ago. No-one like you has ever wanted me before. I can't make you any promises. I just... I want to know what I could've been missing out on. Is that so wrong?" 

Regis exhales slowly, not quite a sigh, his breath tickling Geralt's chin. "Alright. So it's up to me to lead, is it? Very well. Help me get you out of this." He tugs lightly at Geralt's shirt. 

Geralt obligingly leans upwards and lets Regis peel it up and off. When he reaches for the clasps of Regis' vest in turn, however, the vampire catches his hands. "Oh no, not yet. I get to touch you _first_." When Geralt frowns, uncomprehending, he adds, "Geralt, you may be convinced you won't blanch at the sex of what you find under those, but you've asked _me_ to lead... and so you'll wait until I've had my fill." Geralt wants to argue, but there doesn't seem to be much point—he may as well let Regis have his way. He settles back onto his elbows expectantly. 

Regis cups his face again, his expression heartbreakingly fond. Slowly, his fingers begin to trail their way down the line of Geralt's neck. At the touch of a thumb to his throat Geralt stops breathing for a moment, breath catching. He swallows involuntarily, watches Regis watching the movement of his Adam's apple, alive under his fingers. Regis exhales, kisses him gently beneath the chin, his fingers drifting lower, over the hollow at the base of Geralt's throat, tracing the lines of his collar bones with both hands, the ridges of scars so old Geralt hardly remembers where they came from, mapping the planes of his chest with infinite care. 

"You can only imagine," Regis breathes in his ear, "how long I've dreamt of this." His thumbs drag over Geralt's nipples, making him gasp—surprised at himself, he's not even used to being particularly sensitive there. He feels Regis smile against his skin, his lips settling on Geralt's neck as his hands move lower, exploring the dips of his abdominals, the dusting of hair on his belly. Arching his neck to give Regis better access, Geralt finds his hand has buried itself in Regis' hair again. The thin band of flesh accessible at the back of Regis' neck above his collar is beginning to drive him mad. How had Regis ever imagined he wouldn't want this? 

"Never really got over your thing for necks, hm?" he hears himself say. It's not what he meant to say, but he can't bear the silence any longer. 

"Oh, be quiet, Geralt," Regis scolds, his breath tickling Geralt's neck. "I'm trying to have sex with you." 

Geralt wants to laugh, but can't quite find the breath for it. "First time I've ever known you to turn down the chance for conversation." 

"Uncharacteristic, I know. But with you as my distraction I... don't trust what I might say." That throws Geralt for a moment—after all Regis has admitted, what could he have left to fear? But then Regis is looking him in the eye, and there's something vulnerable in his face Geralt's never seen before. "Geralt, tell me... tell me you want this." His hand has found its way lower still, between Geralt's legs, feeling the outline of him through his pants; the need to push upwards into that pressure is almost unbearable. 

"So much," Geralt breathes. He runs his hands down Regis' spine; it's maddening, how many layers he's wearing. Finding Regis' belt, he follows the shape of it to the buckle. "Regis, let me..." 

Regis takes a breath. His nod is almost imperceptible, but Geralt is already wrestling with the buckle to open it. A moment later, Regis begins undoing the fastenings on his vest—and a damn good thing too, because there are far too many buttons on that outfit of his and Geralt's hands are clumsy from the wine, and he's running out of patience. The belt dealt with, he starts on the buttons at the bottom of the shirt underneath as Regis begins at the top. By some miracle, they meet in the middle without anything tearing (closer to Geralt's end, really) but then Regis' hand is in his, and even getting his hands on Regis properly isn't as important as bringing it to lips so he can kiss it on the palm while watching Regis' wide, dark eyes go darker still. 

"Oh..." he moans, and then he's kissing Geralt again, full on the mouth, his body flush against Geralt's, so sudden and unthinking that some of his loose buttons get caught awkwardly between them. But Geralt doesn't care, hardly even notices, because the few layers left between them aren't nearly enough to mask that Regis is _hard_ —as hard as Geralt, pressed up against his own growing erection, and any lingering fear that the body under Regis' clothes might deter him is long gone under the wash of heat rushing through him. 

At last, Geralt can weave a hand in through the open hangings of Regis' shirt and touch him, his skin cool and smooth. But little else registers nearly so much as the fact he can feel Regis shaking under his hands. "Hey," he whispers, "It's okay. I'm not going anywhere." 

"If only you could make me believe that," Regis murmurs. But he tucks his head under Geralt's chin, and lets Geralt run his fingers around his body, over the curve of his back to find the nubs of his spine. He wants Regis naked—wants all of him with nothing in the way—but touching him like this, under clothes he's still wearing, is intimate in its own tantalising way. 

Without rising from his chest, Regis' hands have found the lacings to Geralt's trousers. "Regis," Geralt starts, but trails off, not even sure what he'd meant to say. He's not sure where this goes from here, it's been too long since he's done anything like this with a man. _Forever_ , technically, when his only prior experience is with boys—other teens exploring their first flush of sexuality in the walls of Kaer Morhen, where women were rarely invited, and certainly not available to the students. A lifetime ago. 

Fortunately, Regis ignores him. With deft fingers he opens Geralt's pants and draws him out; Geralt breathes in, sharply. His head still tucked comfortably under Geralt's chin, Regis begins to stroke him, in long, slow movements. Now Geralt's hand would be shaking, if he lifted it from Regis' back, he thinks. It's been a long time since the simple touch of another's hand had such an effect on him. 

"Like that, Geralt?" Regis whispers, satisfaction thick in his tone. 

"Find me a man on this continent who _wouldn't_ ," Geralt manages. He's not even sure what he's saying. 

"Don't flatter me, Geralt," Regis murmurs. "I know I'm not to everyone's tastes." 

_Good_ , Geralt thinks, _because I don't plan on sharing you_. But he can't _say_ that, can't make that kind of promise, even in the heat of the moment. It wouldn't be fair. 

Hand still moving, Regis slides gently down Geralt's body, stopping only when his face draws level with Geralt's... with... _damnit_ , he's no blushing teenager anymore, hasn't been in decades; why is it so hard to put a name to his own damn _erection_ the moment Regis is involved? Because obviously Regis is to blame: with his elegant, refined airs, the genteel old character he plays—like Geralt doesn't _know_ about the succubus, or how long Regis single-handedly kept her satisfied. Like Regis _isn't_ the one who just got him out of his pants one-handed in the dark—who still has his hand on the base of Geralt's cock, studying it with the reverence and hunger of an artist meaning to capture every detail. And without further ado, he raises himself onto his forearms and, with a look of complete absorption, begins to mouth Geralt's shaft. 

Geralt gasps, makes a thoroughly unmanly noise. The fingers of both his hands curl into the grass at his sides with enough force that there'll be handprints left there come morning, great clods of grass and soil scooped out under his fists, because there's nothing else to hang onto. He doesn't trust his hands on Regis now—not even knowing how little risk there is of seriously hurting him. By all the gods he's never believed in, if Regis keeps this up he's not going to _last_ —he'll come without ever having touched Regis back the way he needs to, so badly. 

"Regis, wait..." he manages, stifling the end of a moan. When Regis pauses and looks up at him, the only words he can find are, "You too." 

"Me too?" Regis raises an eyebrow with the edge of a mischievous smile. "Geralt, if that's what you have in mind, we're going to have to rearrange ourselves somewhat. But given the choice... I'd prefer to be able to see your face." 

"Me too," Geralt manages. His mouth is dry and they're out of wine, more's the pity. "Just... come up here, please." Regis obliges, and Geralt gives himself a moment to rub the worst of the grass and dirt off his fingers onto his pants before he's reaching for Regis in turn. He doesn't have nearly Regis' finesse when it comes to finding the fastening of his trousers by touch, but somehow he gets them open, and underneath... underneath, Regis feels as human as anyone Geralt has ever touched, and the discovery sends a spike of heat right through him. The inescapable _maleness_ of him is no sort of deterrent at all. 

Regis sighs, long and breathy, as Geralt measures the length of him with his hand. He can't see what he's touching, even his eyes can't find much in shadow that deep at such an angle, but what he can feel is more than enough. At the first proper stroke, Regis lets out a soft, startled, " _Oh_ ," and Geralt wants to hear it again. He pulls Regis closer, grateful that he has hands large enough to wrap around the both of them together. It's far from perfect—the angle isn't quite right and his hand is too dry, but the idea of stopping to fix any of that is unthinkable—especially when Regis' hand joins Geralt's, especially with the _noises_ Regis has begun to make. 

He's managed barely a dozen proper strokes before something in Regis begins to come apart, over him and against him, and so much more than Geralt can take. It's all he can do to hold onto Regis while his own climax arrives with a force there's no resisting. 

For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of them both panting quietly, breathing the same air. 

"My goodness," says Regis, at length. His fingers card gently through Geralt's hair, the motion automatic, thoughtless. "Well, this is embarrassing. I'm usually capable of lasting much longer than that." 

"Usually, huh?" says Geralt, who's in no state to come up with anything much more intelligent just yet. 

"I don't actually live like a monk, whatever you might imagine," says Regis, arching an eyebrow. Geralt hadn't imagined anything of the sort, but that's another point there's no sense in arguing. "Do you think," Regis adds, after a moment's hesitation, "we might manage another round?" 

Geralt's mouth has gone dry again. "Yeah," he manages. "Just give me a few minutes and... yeah. What did you have in mind?" 

* * *

Geralt had meant it about needing a few minutes—and he gets them, as Regis leads him inside to his cosy little space below, shedding the last of his clothing under Geralt's appreciative eye before helping Geralt to do likewise. There's still more to appreciate as Regis pushes him down onto the cot in the corner and crawls on top of him—naked this time, on display in the candlelight. But it's a fairly intellectual appreciation, ending with the faint heat in the pit of his belly, and Geralt had assumed they'd have to start much slower—until Regis wraps oil-coated fingers around his cock with barely any preamble, stroking Geralt to hardness while looking him right in the eye—and it _works_ , Geralt comes alive under Regis' hands in less time than it had taken up above. 

"You would think I'd know better than this," he tells Geralt, wistfully, "taking advantage of a friend drunk on wine and nostalgia. But you are so very hard to resist..." 

Geralt has some choice things to say about just who's taking advantage of who here, but the careful motion of Regis' hand on his cock is making it incredibly hard to string sentences together—and then there's the sight of Regis lowering himself carefully onto Geralt, taking him in in one long, deliberate slide, and the only word Geralt can manage is the vampire's name. 

"Alright?" Regis asks him, when he's seated himself fully, oiled fingers now wrapped lightly around his own shaft. So distracted is Geralt by the sight of him—the thought of what it would be like to lie here watching Regis jerk himself off onto Geralt's chest—that it takes too long to register that Regis is being a smartass and doesn't seriously expect an answer. 

"Forgot," Geralt manages, "how smug you could be." 

"Hard to resist," Regis smiles, "when I have you just where I've wanted you for years." 

Distantly, it occurs to Geralt to wonder what he means by that—naked and willing? In his bed? Under him? _Inside_ him? Does it matter? 

"I can see you thinking," Regis muses. "It would seem to suggest I'm not doing my job properly." So saying, he clenches his muscles around the intrusion of Geralt's cock, and Geralt forgets what he was thinking about completely. He's already come once, and Regis has him well on the way to a second orgasm far too soon. He has hardly any leverage, but the need to thrust up to meet that wonderful pressure is so great he tries anyway—Regis simply rides the motion out and presses down on Geralt's hip with a strength that brooks no argument. "Now, now, Geralt. I'm on top, I'll set the pace. I mean to ensure we _both_ last long enough to savour the experience this time." 

"Oh?" says Geralt, mostly just because you can't _not_ argue with that sort of ultimatum, "Think I'll let you?" 

" _Yes_ , Geralt, I think you will," says Regis, who looks far too pleased with himself. "I'd dare to suppose you might even enjoy it." 

_Oh, damnit,_ thinks Geralt, _Who told him?_ Dandelion, probably. Or maybe Regis simply knows him well enough to have guessed it on his own. Or perhaps... but the distracting pressure as Regis presses down again has him losing that thought. For a long while, it's all he can do to lie there and pant while Regis works him expertly, the rise and fall of pleasure keeping him just far enough from the edge. _Damn_ , where did Regis learn to do this? 

"Still with me, my friend?" Regis whispers in his ear, leaning in low. 

Geralt pants and grins. "Knew you'd been quiet too long. Hardly known anyone who loves the sound of his own voice so much." 

"Or perhaps I'd like to hear more of _your_ voice. You are such a feast for the senses like this, Geralt." 

"My voice isn't fit for much just now," says Geralt, because he knows it's true, "but that's what you wanna hear, isn't it? What _you've_ done to it." Geralt reaches out and reels him in for a kiss, filthy and deep. " _Regis_ ," he murmurs, when they break apart. He watches Regis' eyelids flutter, and the next thrust of his hips comes down wonderfully harder. " _Yeah_. More. Like that." 

Regis kisses him on the forehead—a strangely chaste and simple gesture under the circumstances—but his next thrust is harder again. Geralt groans, moans out Regis' name again, and savours his reward. "Gonna let me come, Regis? Come on. Wanna feel you... hah... _yeah_." 

There's still far too much deliberation in Regis' movements, but the next time Geralt gives in to the need to thrust up to meet him, Regis doesn't stop him. It isn't enough, it isn't _nearly_ enough—he wants to feel Regis lose it completely—so the sudden onslaught of his own orgasm takes Geralt by surprise, fierce and ragged as Regis milks him through it, with little more than an open mouth to betray his reaction. It's only when Geralt finally feels himself starting to run out of steam that Regis moans his name one last time and starts to come apart on top of him—and Geralt should be too wrung out to appreciate the way Regis shakes and sputters on top of him, until the hand he has resting on Geralt's chest starts to _dissolve_... 

It says a lot about the power of Geralt's climax that it's not until several minutes later, Regis collapsed comfortably onto his chest, that it occurs to him that the last part wasn't entirely par for this sort of encounter. "Did you just... uh, turn into fog... a little?" 

"Mm," Regis murmurs. "A symptom of some of my better climaxes. I don't remember the last time someone made me do that..." 

_Damn_ , Geralt thinks, _that's hot_ —making someone come apart isn't usually that _literal_ —but that's as much coherence as he has left in him before he collapses into sleep.


	2. Veritas: Remix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I'm posting it as a second chapter for simplicity, take note: this _isn't_ a continuation of the first part, but more of a remix. Because _Blood and Wine_ has multiple endings (and certainly more than one way of interpreting even a single ending), I couldn't help but come up with at least one more way Geralt and Regis might get from drinks under the stars in the final scene into something more intimate. So, for the moment, take this as an alternate scene the player might have reached with a few different choices – we'll get to some actual continuation with the next part of the series.

There isn't much to celebrate, in the end.

After all they've been through, everything they've endured, Regis is leaving again. As if it hadn't been enough to burden Geralt with the lives of the people of Beauclair, the Duchess' sister, and the burning question of whether there could be any forgiveness for Dettlaff, once he'd gone so far—no, what's lodged itself in the back of his throat is the decision he hadn't even known he was making. He's barely gotten his friend back, and Regis is leaving. 

What use is it to tell himself this isn't final? There's no death sentence hanging over them; he'll see Regis again, someday—that much is all but inevitable. But Geralt isn't ready for whatever comes next, for Regis to so easily pack up his life here and move on. He isn't ready to say goodbye, even just for now. 

Back when Regis first joined their party on the road to Nilfgaard, all those years ago, Geralt had wondered from time to time what lay beneath Regis' motivations—the subtext buried in those meaningful silences, the looks and the smiles he directed Geralt's way. But then, Geralt was so used to being wanted that he'd been aware he may have been guilty of seeing it even when it wasn't there. More than once, he'd convinced himself that it was obvious, that Regis wanted him; more than once, he'd convinced himself he was being foolish, reading intent into nothing at all. But in the end, it hadn't _mattered_ : the vampire's interest was flattering, certainly (assuming it was ever more than Geralt's imagination) but he'd no intention of taking Regis up on what he might have been offering, and Regis had never been so explicit that it had been necessary to let him down. Whatever else he might have been, Regis was unmistakably _content_ in their friendship, and Geralt more than content in turn. 

And then Regis had died, and none of it had mattered anymore—none except the guilt of having to wonder if his hard-won reunion with Ciri and Yennefer would ever have been possible at all, had Regis not loved Geralt enough to follow him to his doom. 

To find Regis alive in Toussaint was a reward surpassing all the Duchess' generosity. Perhaps that's why the thought of him leaving again so soon has stuck in Geralt's throat so, but the truth is that ever since Regis first named the sponsor behind his recovery, the joy and relief of their reunion has been marred by the touch of something he isn't proud of. Hard enough to learn that he's accepted a contract on a man Regis—and thus Geralt by proxy—owes more than he could ever hope to repay, but then there's the way his friend talks about Dettlaff, about the blood bond they share. Oh, he's as circumspect as he's ever been on the burning question of whether Dettlaff's crimes can or should be forgiven; Geralt has never had cause to doubt whom Regis would stand with should it come to that—and yet _doubt_ he did, despite himself. 

It's not just the way Regis had held his friend's severed hand, or the ring, or that Regis was willing to drink raven's blood and chain himself up like an animal—endure torture that Geralt had had to stand and watch, all in Dettlaff's name. It's that Regis is one of the cleverest, most reasonable people Geralt has ever known, and whatever he feels for Dettlaff makes him _stupid_. Stupid enough to parade him in front of the Duchess, to ignore Geralt's explicit warning to keep Dettlaff away from Dun Tynne—and even then, to imagine Dettlaff still capable of _talking things out_ with Syanna after all that had passed. Whatever Regis feels for Dettlaff is stronger than reason, that much is painfully sure. 

Reason would have told Geralt it was foolish to resent Regis for offering to another what Geralt had never wanted himself, but reason, it seems, has deserted them both, because _resent_ he does. It's an ugly, petty jealousy, one that grows in his stomach like an ulcer from the hour he leaves Regis' presence—only to melt like mist in the sun next time he sees Regis in person, in the warmth his friend's unmistakable affection and regard. Yet each time they part it takes root again to sprout anew. And now, after tonight, he won't see Regis again, for who knows how long. Geralt's own choices have assured that. 

It's still a little humbling, just how willing Regis had been to accept Geralt's judgement on Dettlaff's fate; recognising, no doubt, that he was too close to Dettlaff himself to be objective. The irony is that by the time that choice had to be made, Geralt no longer trusted _himself_ to make that call for the right reasons. The horror of the bloodshed in Beauclair was too entangled with his own awful jealousy for Geralt to make up his mind, even on the question of which outcome would really be kinder to _Regis—_ let alone what the objectively lesser evil might be. The worst is that knowing what he does now, that his choice would lose him Regis, he isn't sure he'd be strong enough to make it again—and with everything at stake, that surely is the most pettily _selfish_ reason he could have chosen. 

Geralt's not ready to say goodbye again. Not yet. He knows perfectly well what kind of man decides he wants something only because the offer has been rescinded, but tonight, trying to find the words to say farewell over a glass of mandrake wine, he may at last be too worn out for anything less. 

It's late enough to be early, and Geralt knows his mood hasn't made him the companion Regis deserves tonight. So when his friend finally begins to make noises about turning in, Geralt finds himself catching him by the hand instead. 

"Regis, wait," he says, and then, with Regis' hand still clasped in his own, manages, "I'd rather not be alone tonight." 

"You'd...?" Regis blinks at him. "You know, Geralt, if I didn't know you so well, I might have taken that as a proposition..." A beat goes by as he catches the look in Geralt's eyes before the witcher looks away. " _Oh_." 

Geralt shrugs and looks away. "Perhaps you don't know me as well as you thought." 

Regis' sigh is that of an old friend who's known you too long to expect better, and yet somehow did. "Really, Geralt? If you're so desperate for companionship, we're not ten minutes ride from the heart of Beauclair. I'm sure you could find any number of willing participants much more your style. They may be the sort to expect some remuneration for the privilege, given the hour, but we both know..." 

"...that's really not the sort of company I'm looking for, Regis." 

The silence between them has begun to become awkward before Regis speaks again. " _Well_. I must confess you've managed to surprise me. Am I to understand, Geralt, that I've missed this side of you? A habit of soliciting intimate favours from male friends that has somehow passed me by? Perhaps I should be offended you've waited so long to turn to me..." 

" _Regis_." This was a terrible idea. Geralt doesn't know how he ever imagined otherwise. 

"I'm sorry, Geralt," says Regis, sounding rather more exasperated than sorry, "I'm at something of a loss to understand what you think you're doing. To the best of my knowledge, you don't sleep with men, let alone men like me. I'm not at all sure what you suppose you're asking _for_." 

_He knows_ , thinks Geralt. _This was a stupid impulse and he's seen right through you._ But if Regis is going to throw down the gauntlet, he's not backing down yet. "You could fuck me," he says, looking Regis right in the eye. 

The shiver that goes through Regis is so fast that Geralt couldn't have sworn to the fact he'd seen it at all. The vampire's face remains stoic, his voice impressively controlled as he asks, "Have you done that before?" 

"And liked it." It's true. Regis can see it in his eyes. 

"With a man or a woman?" 

There's a story there, but Geralt finds himself with no great desire to discuss the collection of _other_ novelties Yennefer kept in Vengerberg alongside the infamous stuffed unicorn—let alone a history of adolescent fumbles with other trainees, or cold nights on the path with only other witchers for company. Regis isn't wrong: to Geralt, there are women, and then there's what you sometimes make do with when no women are available, but he didn't start this because he wants to _talk_ through whatever the hell he's feeling. "Does it matter?" 

"No," allows Regis, "I suppose not. Especially as I think I might prefer youto do _me_ that honour." Another beat goes by as Regis allows his words to sink in. "How does that suit you, Geralt?" he teases. "Have I put you off?" 

"No." Geralt manages, through a suddenly dry throat. "Quite the opposite." 

"Very well." Rising to his feet, Regis makes quick work of dusting himself off. "Let's take this below. I'm sure I have something that will serve to, ah, ease the way." He sets off without waiting for Geralt to follow. 

By the time Geralt catches up with him below, Regis is already busy rifling through his possessions. "One moment," he calls to Geralt, "I know I had some suitable oil; I must have misplaced it. You may as well get undressed while you wait, assuming that's how you'd prefer to go about this." 

Feeling painfully self-conscious but at a loss for what else to do with himself, Geralt sheds his jacket and begins to unlace his trousers. 

This isn't how he'd pictured it, this blunt matter-of-factness from a Regis who would go so long without meeting his eyes—who is willing and curious but by no means enamoured with Geralt, or anything he's offering. In truth, Geralt isn't sure what he'd pictured, but standing up from shedding his trousers to find Regis has likewise undressed without ceremony, like strangers at a public bath, certainly played no part in it. The plain truth, that this has all been a mistake from the outset, is becoming harder to deny. 

Still, Geralt finds himself reaching for Regis, wrapping an arm around his body to pull him back against his chest—and the way he fits there quenches any lingering doubts that _Geralt_ , at least, doesn't want this. "Regis," he manages, "if you don't want this... you know you can still say no." 

"I'm quite aware," Regis replies, wrapping a hand over Geralt's forearm and relaxing against him. "I hope you don't imagine I said yes to you out of pity. No, Geralt, I'm well aware of the compliment you've paid me, and I don't mean to miss my chance to experience the famed Geralt of Rivia in action. You have quite the reputation to live up to." 

"Okay," says Geralt, "now _I'm_ having second thoughts." But that's better, Regis teasing him. He can deal with that. 

Regis smiles at Geralt over his shoulder, a gleam in his eye. "This was your idea, Geralt. I hope you mean to make it worth my while." A frisson of heat darts through Geralt's body; yeah, it's much too late to back out of this now. 

Squeezing Geralt's arm gently, Regis holds up a bottle of oil over his shoulder, and Geralt takes it automatically. He's still studying it as Regis gently extracts himself from Geralt's grasp and stretches himself out on the cot in the corner, face down, his head resting lightly on his arms. Everything in his pose is quietly expectant. 

Geralt finds himself at a loss again. There's nothing ambiguous in Regis' behaviour, but he'd expected, well, more foreplay at least. Was it a mistake to have been so blunt as to go straight to 'fuck me' when Regis asked him about his expectations? Well, it's a bit late to worry about that now. Regis is naked in the candlelight and waiting, and he'd have to work a lot harder to turn Geralt off. If this is all Regis will offer him, Geralt will take it and be glad. 

With his knee at the edge of the mattress, he hesitates, moves the candle to give himself more light, and only then shifts his weight onto the bed, one knee either side of Regis' thighs. The vampire's skin is pale and smooth, his body deceptively slim without his clothing, for all the power it holds. Geralt drops his fingers to the small of Regis' back and trails down to cup the curve of his buttock. "This how you want it?" 

"I trust you don't need instructions. A diagram, perhaps?" 

"No." The cork comes out of the bottle at a tug. Maybe he just wants Regis to keep talking. "I trust you'll tell me if this doesn't... if I don't..." 

"If you think what you're about to do is going to in any way impede my power of speech," says Regis, a twinkle in his voice, "I see we may need a diagram after all." 

Geralt laughs in spite of himself. His right hand sticky with oil, he looks around for somewhere to put down the bottle, ends up placing it on the shelf to his left, and comes back no surer about what he's about to do, no matter what he'd told Regis. He wants to touch Regis everywhere, but if this is how Regis wants it, there isn't much more he can do than oblige. 

Obligingly then, Geralt runs a finger down between his buttocks to find the pucker of his body, pressing slowly inside. It goes in easily, slick with oil. Deeper, as Geralt wonders at the feeling of Regis' body opening for him, tries to find the angle that always worked when this was done for him... 

" _Ah_ ," Regis breathes, softly. Geralt could listen to him make that sound forever. 

A few gentle thrusts, and he tries a second finger, loving the way Regis presses back against the intrusion, ever so slightly, when Geralt gets it just right. Regis may not be human; Geralt knows as well as anyone what he's really invited to bed tonight—but like this, he looks and _feels_ as human as anyone. There's something breathtaking in that. 

"Geralt, not that this isn't pleasant," says Regis, presently, "but you realise you don't need to handle me like a virgin. I won't break." 

"Who said this is for you?" Geralt quips back. He's only half-joking. He knows he's being overly cautious, in the need to get this right, give Regis a night to remember. But at the same time, this might be the only time he ever gets to touch Regis like this. He can't afford to waste that. 

A startled chuckle comes from Regis. "Oh, very well. But you _will_ need more than a couple of fingers to take this much further, I assure you." 

It's a goad, and it works. Geralt growls softly and grips himself with his free hand. He's going to need more oil—he's definitely got it on the mattress, but it's far too late to worry about that. Thus far, he's been aroused but comfortable, but the slick touch of the oil against his cock is enough to make him _very_ ready for this very quickly. Trust Regis to mean it when he said he thought he had 'something suitable'. 

Regis pushes himself up onto his knees as Geralt slides his fingers out. "Go on, Geralt," he quips, "thrust it in." 

Geralt laughs aloud. "Last time you said that to me, I had a sword at your throat." 

"Don't think I haven't waited years for the opportunity." It's closer to an admission than anything Geralt's got out of him all night, and Geralt can't hold himself back a moment longer; he pushes himself into Regis and prays, in the hopeless manner of the atheist, that he'll last long enough to make this worthwhile. 

" _Mmm_ ," Regis arches back into him, humming with pleasure. Geralt wraps an arm around his chest, pressing their bodies together, thrusts back into Regis with a smooth roll of his hips, and kisses him on the shoulder because he can't help it. " _Regis_ ," he murmurs. 

" _More_ ," Regis pants. Geralt rolls his hips again, feels himself slide even deeper in, has to stifle the sound he nearly makes against Regis' shoulder. " _Ah_ ," Regis moans. "Yes, like that." 

Geralt feels a little giddy. Regis _likes_ it, good—even though he doesn't have much leverage to thrust, not without loosening his hold on Regis' chest, and he doesn't want to do that. He's in the perfect position to press his mouth to where Regis' shoulder meets his neck, feel Regis arch his neck to give him better access, while Geralt thrusts lazily into his body. 

Every part of Regis that's been hidden from Geralt since his friend turned his body away and laid himself down is there under his hands, to explore and learn by touch. The soft lines of muscle on Regis' chest guide Geralt to his navel; beneath it, a faint trail of hair leads further down. There's a moment where Regis stiffens as fingers find the base of his cock, but it passes with no more than a soft gasp as Geralt follows the hard line of the shaft out from his body, feeling the size of it in his hand. Loving the weight of it, the evidence of everything he's doing to Regis. Under the tips of his fingers, he can feel where the foreskin has rolled back from the head; when he presses gently to the sensitive spot at the base of the slit, he feels Regis buck back against him, gasping with pleasure. Geralt kisses him under the chin and is rewarded beyond measure when Regis turns to him and lets Geralt kiss him properly, mouth to mouth. 

"You feel so _human_ ," he tells Regis when they break apart, still rapt by the intimacy of having Regis in his hand. 

" _Human_ , am I?" Regis manages, though it comes out breathy and not nearly so smart as he probably meant it. "Do you say that to all the other races you've...?" 

"You know what I mean. I _know_ humans," says Geralt. "Know what makes them feel good." 

"Mm, that you do." Regis agrees, but there's something under it that tingles against the witcher's senses in ways that make no sense in context, like he's coiling for a spring. "Though perhaps you do need reminding..." 

The body under Geralt's own dissolves into smoke. Barely has he begun to make sense of what Regis has done before there's flesh coalescing back into being under his hands again, Regis' smiling face emerging before his eyes. 

"...that it isn't just another human you lay with tonight," Regis finishes. He shifts luxuriously, canting his hips to adjust Geralt's length inside him. He fits so neatly into the space he'd left that it takes Geralt a stupefying moment too long to comprehend that Regis has simply used that ridiculous vampire power of his to change position, gone one moment and back the next, and somehow without even dislodging Geralt, who is still so buried deep inside him he hardly noticed the difference. He knows _that_ smug look far too well. 

"Show off," he grumbles, impressed, but thrown a little off his stride. 

"Not at all," Regis argues, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Geralt's ear. "I merely realised I wished to see your face." He smiles at Geralt, hooking a leg lazily around his hips. "Don't pretend you don't like it." 

"Yeah," Geralt groans, taking the invitation to thrust, figuring out his leverage in their new arrangement, "I like it." Slowly, he begins to find a rhythm again. "Wanna know the truth?" he hears himself say, hardly knowing where he's going with it. "I liked you before I ever knew you were anything more than human, Regis. Then I found out, and I couldn't believe you'd ever taken me in—you're like nothing else, Regis. _No-one_ else. But I can still touch you like this... and know you'll love it. And you feel so _good_." 

Regis moans delightfully. "Do go on," he goads, but Geralt is running out of things to say and doesn't trust himself or his voice much further, so he growls and surges forward to kiss him—from the way Regis grabs the back of his head to hold him there, he's plainly forgiven. Geralt grasps for the oil, manages to get some on his hand before he finds Regis' cock again, and thrusts into him desperately until it all becomes too much to coordinate, and he has to give up Regis' mouth. He makes do with letting Regis hold their foreheads together, panting hotly into the same space, breathing the same air. 

_Gods_ , he could fuck Regis like this for hours. He wants to fuck him until he forgets anyone else who's ever touched him before, until the last smart remark left in him is Geralt's name. He wants to feel Regis _come_ —just like this—wants to make him come _again_ , fitted together with Geralt at his back like they were before. He wants to hear Regis make those sounds he's making forever. He wants... 

It's damn hard, holding back his own climax long enough to feel Regis come apart around him, because of him—when Regis seems to go on coming apart for so _long_. 

It's worth every moment. 

* * *

Regis' mattress is in no way big enough for two grown men to sleep on, let alone when one is the size of Geralt, but neither of them are in any state to do much more than collapse into unconsciousness where they lie. Geralt wakes to find Regis sprawled heavily across his chest, his breaths slow and even. It's dark in the quiet of the crypt, the candles long since gone out, but somewhere outside, Geralt thinks it might be daylight. 

Sober and rested in the cold stillness of morning, it's impossible to avoid seeing his behaviour the night before in a very different light. Regis had been willing, certainly, but with all Geralt's ugly jealousy on display... this may be more than their friendship can recover from. But there'll be no coward's exit, no sneaking away before Regis wakes—because _Regis_ , Geralt realises, isn't actually drowsing. Though he hasn't stirred, he's likely been awake for some time. 

"Was this..." Geralt starts, haltingly, "a mistake? Have... have I ruined things?" 

Regis sighs softly before lifting his head. "Oh, _Geralt_ ," he begins, years of fond exasperation in his voice, "Don't be dramatic. I've been in love with you far too long to let you ruin this for me _that_ easily." 

"Oh," says Geralt, indistinctly. So, after all, he... 

"Don't pretend you didn't know." 

"I... wasn't sure," Geralt admits. 

"Well, now you are," says Regis. "And if you're about to tell me this was no more than your overindulgent way of saying goodbye, my heart will be able to take it. Whatever you can find within yourself to offer me, Geralt, be it only your friendship and this one lovely memory, I will be glad of it." 

At Geralt's stunned expression, he sighs again. "Come on, Geralt, I've never harboured any illusions about you. I'm a little old for hopeless pining. Truth be told, it's been so many years since I was last in love that it's really very pleasant, with or without the expectation that anything is likely to come of it." Smiling, he rests his chin on his hands. "Though even after all this time, you're still capable of surprising me." 

Geralt stares blankly upwards into the darkness, trying to process all that Regis has just told him. It's going to take him some time. "You're still leaving," he says. It's almost an accusation. 

"For now," says Regis. "I think, after last night, we may both benefit from the space, for a while at least. Don't you?" 

Loathe as Geralt is to admit it, he's almost certainly right. It's going to take a while to sort his head out, before he's any fit company again. 

"Geralt," says Regis, seriously, "don't feel you need to regret what happened last night. I know I won't. This is _until next time_ , it isn't _goodbye_." 

"I'll hold you to that," Geralt manages, but finds he isn't in a rush to say _until next time_ just yet. 

They'll have to get up eventually, he supposes, but neither of them make any move to rise. The world can wait.


End file.
